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Date Posted: 20:24:30 12/27/04 Mon
Author: Paul
Subject:
Remember to Breathe


She fixes her lips, they

always looks perfect...

Never a smudge line,

Never too mu-ch




Shock of all Shocks, Paul was zoning out as he sat on the bed in just his khaki’s and black belt, bare chested and hair still mussed and damp. His eyes were focused on the wall, staring at nothing in particular, while his mind wandered with his crazy imagination. He was picturing her in his head, her beautiful face, those perfect pouty lips, the way she ran her tongue over them, the way she bit the corner when she was concentrating. After focusing on her lips for awhile, he moved on to think about that beautiful thick hair that fell in a wave of cascading raven down her perfectly formed, bronzed, gorgeous shoulders. The shoulders, of course, led to things that a proper gentleman such as himself wouldn’t talk about but he sure as hell would fantasize about it….anyways….clearing his throat he forced his thoughts away from that before he finally just settled on her for who she was, why he was so drawn to her, it was amazing, no girl had ever hooked him in like she had. She was engraved into his very being and every thought that crossed his mind somehow related to her. She was like a goddess and he was nothing but a poor musician. What she even say in him was beyond his comprehension and yet that somewhat plagued his low self esteem poor self concept. Sometimes he wondered if he was just a joke to her, if she was going to start laughing in his face one of these days and tell him to fuck off. Or what if right now she really did like him, but later, what if she woke up and realized he was a big loser and just walked away? She would take his heart with him, no doubt on that. Well, he could only hope that wouldn’t happen, but if it did, well, he would just write a lot of songs about his lost love and broken heart. Everyone else prospered from their heartache, perhaps he could to.



I try on my blue shirt...
She told me she liked it, once.




Finally shaking himself out of his blissful oblivion, he stood up and crossed over to the closet to draw out a button up shirt that she had once commented that she liked, it was actually a pale blue color and he wore a pale pink tight tee beneath. Some guys couldn’t wear pink and pull it off; he was one of the one’s who could. Checking himself out in the mirror, briefly, he headed into the kitchen, pursing his lips as he looked around the apartment critically. The tree was up in all its majestic glory, huge and glittering with tons of presents beneath it for her and for her dogs. Tucker was lying on the couch – wearing his Santa hat - and gnawing on a rawhide that was bigger then he was, Paul was weak and had given him one present early. The scent of a pie baking was his greatest accomplishment, the intoxicating aroma just screamed Christmas, as did the music playing softly in the background. His eyes were taking everything thing in – she was going to be there any minute. Was everything perfect? It had to be perfect; she deserved something perfect, something real. Something not prepared by cooks and maids and people of that nature, instead prepared by the hands of someone who truly loved her. Was it perfect? It seemed to be…all he could do now was wait for her arrival.


So sneakers or flipflops?

I'm starting to panic.

Remember she asked you,

"Remember to bre-athe,

And every-thing will be o-kay."


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